I've been doing some research up at the university library lately, in the special collections section. One of the early settlers of my town was a woman named Minnie Frances Hayden Howard. She was a doctor, graduating from medical school in 1899, and shortly afterward moved to Pocatello with her husband and young family. After a long and busy life, Minnie was asked many times by family and friends to write her memoirs, so in her 85th year, she took out a spiral bound notebook and began to write. That notebook was part of the large donation of papers and correspondence her son gave to the Idaho State University library after her death. When I found that memoir, it felt to me that I had found the Small Plates themselves, as these were full of anecdotes, interesting memories, reflections on life, and musings about the past, as well as the loose chronological history of Minnie's experiences. I read so much and learned so many things about this woman, that she feels like a friend or close acquaintance. I'm continuing to learn from someone who has been dead for almost 50 years!

One of the ideas Minnie shared was this simple but thought-provoking phrase: "People tend to live by the sentiments of the songs they sing." Minnie wrote about how her mother didn't enjoy the young teenagers bringing home the songs of the day and pounding them out on the melodeon. Songs like "You'll Miss Lots of Fun When You're Married" by John Philip Sousa & Edward M. Taber, or "After the Ball" by Charles K. Harris were not allowed to be sung in that strict, though loving, household. Now there may be nothing wrong with those songs, but Minnie's mother didn't want her young single adults to fall into the thought patterns of such songs that poked gentle fun at marriage or encouraged maudlin regret.

Maybe Minnie's mother has a point. But I've always been more interested in reading and books than in popular music, so as I've been sitting and pondering lately, I've been wondering if we also tend to live by the overall themes of the books we read. I think yes, we do.

It is terribly hard for me to settle on one single book as my all-time favorite. But I suppose if I were pushed to make a decision, I would ultimately choose To Kill a Mockingbird. (That's not to say it would be the first book I'd choose to be stranded with on a desert island. That honor would go to the as-yet-unpublished Encyclopedia Galactica. But that's another blog topic in itself.)

When I recall To Kill a Mockingbird and its themes that I have consciously or unconsciously lived by as a result of making that book part of myself, I think certainly of the message to reject racism and hold fast to justice. But I think also of other, subtler themes.

For example, I have four teenaged sons (one of them is an exchange student from Poland). Our life is very full and sometimes complicated and hectic. I remember how, in my own teen years, I slowly asserted my independence and began to make my own choices and decisions about life. I know I slowly withdrew from my parents, though still keeping good relations with them, and spent more and more time with my friends. Now my own children are doing this. I have learned that instead of trying in vain to hang on to my elusive sons for a little longer, risking disgruntlement and rebellion, I try to use Atticus's style of parenting. Scout said he treated her and Jem with "courteous detachment." So instead of getting all worked up about a child declining to share all the details of a date with me, or another son who refuses to give me a play-by-play of his debate tournament, I remember Atticus's courtesy and his gentle awareness of the individuality of his children, and I try to do likewise.

I think also of the way people in the Maycomb community helped each other and I hope I've internalized the model Harper Lee describes of an ideal neighborhood where people work together in friendship to help one another. Through hardships like fire and addiction, and smaller things like gardening and recognizing a stray dog, the people of this fictionalized neighborhood helped each other. Because of Stephanie Crawford's influence, for example, I have tried to be kind to the children of my own neighborhood. So I think the themes of community and public feeling have rubbed off on me.

Then there's Boo Radley. I think a simple way to sum up how his perspective affects me is that one never knows the influence one person has on another. A kind word might be the very thing someone needs to keep going. Scout and Jem had no idea how much they meant to Boo, and often we don't know how much we mean to other people. But maybe that isn't the important thing. Maybe it is more important that we tell the people around us how much they mean to us, and if the feelings are reciprocated, great. If not, at least we've shared our own feelings of gratitude and appreciation.

I could go on and on, tracing my actions directly to portrayals of similar actions in some of my favorite books (unfortunately not all of them positive). Books and ideas are powerful, and music is also powerful. Sometimes I've been a bit shy about reading or thinking or listening to some examples of these things because I know their influence can be great. For example, I haven't been brave enough to read much Stephen King, and I don't have the desire to listen to certain types of music. Maybe this wariness comes in part from recognizing the truth of what Minnie Howard's mother taught. We really do tend to live by the sentiments of the music we listen to and the books we read.

So I think I need to carry this awareness one step farther now. Because I acknowledge the influence books and music have on me, I will, still with courteous detachment, suggest to my children and community members, books whose themes can motivate readers toward good things. I will also listen when my children and others share their thoughts and experiences with me, because it's hard to know how much such a listening ear can mean to someone else. Listening is, in itself, a way to show gratitude and appreciation, and this helps to reinforce the sentiments by which I choose to read about and live by.

Well done to ALL of Mom's chilluns high ort low, wise or otherwise, who have shepherded her so valiantly, so perseverantly, to this ultimate, triumphant passage.

Though the Mudcat prosper and endure for decades, no thread will match what Mom has done, no conversation stagger on so determinedly, nor ever embrace so wide a spectrum of fine and titillating topics. THe purity and color and breadth and depth and sheer aroma of Mom's BS shall remain Mudcat loe, a part of the Great History of the Mudcat, forevermore.

There are tales get told of the awesome cold That can snap a man's fillgree When the night winds blow, thirty-eight below Is the best you can hope to see. And men of renown, when the mercury's down Have battled that freezing spre But none was so bold, when it came to cold, As the rounder called Rapparree.

He would saunter out without a coat When the seas were frozen still And the ice so thick and the wind so slick And the night so dark, so chill When the cussing from the mouth Of the men from the South Would freeze before they were heard And the ice-cold claw that will never thaw Would silence every word.

In the bitterest white Manitoba night No man would dare make free They would huddle at home while the ice-wind moaned In the frozen hearts of the trees. Then theyd hear a sound from the night outside Where no life by rights should be, And each Yukon blade would nod, and say "It's the bootstep of Rapparee".

50,000

The last post put up at Mudcat by Kat LaFrance (Katlaughing) was sent forwarding information about her old and dear friend Art Thieme. I don't think they ever met, but they spoke on the phone, and over time, the fact that they never met was immaterial. It was that way for a lot of us who loved Katlaughing, so when we learned of her sudden death last summer, a few of us decided to try to make the 50,000 post to the Mother of All BS thread in her name.

No mean feat, choosing something she wrote to post, or finding words to honor our friend. She was prolific at Mudcat, sharing her stories and poems and links and working in the background fixing html for those of us who used it but goofed, fixing text for those of us who wrote and found typos, and did a lot of tidying after accidental empty posts and slug-fests that required a quick delete or a virtual bandaid.

This post is in her honor. Many may visit out of curiosity to see what we could be talking about for 50,000 posts. A few people have actually read all of it - the MOAB is filled with stories, conjecture, nonsense, songs, poems, condolences, and more nonsense. It was started by khandu, who occasionally drops in to see what's cooking.

Take a dip here and there in all of the pages of messages, and enjoy good laugh courtesy of all of the folks who have let their hair down and come in for a visit. No freds, galactic overlords, quarks, or duckdogs were injured in the construction of this edifice of BS. I don't know if katlaughing ever posted here, but in her heart she was one of us at the Mother of All BS.

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire; Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher; The flames just soared, and the furnace roared -- such a blaze you seldom see; And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so; And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow. It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why; And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear; But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near; I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside. I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . . then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar; And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door. It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm -- Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee. Robert William Service

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay; It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May". And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum; Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven, With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given; It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow, And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe, He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess; And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Interestingly, there was a guy named "Shem McBride" going through the dumpster behind the Tim Horton's in Churchill. I double checked the name, and yes, the first name is just the same as one of the Three Stooges.

I'm in Indiana and will fly home the day after tomorrow. It was an adventure getting out of Canada and back into the States. Canadian DefenCe Forces and the USAF were skirmishing along the border, using live ammo and live missiles. Our Calm Air turboprop flew right into the middle of all that. Fortunately, our pilot had flown missions in Gulf I, and he dodged all over and finally stuck a .22 pistol out the window and shot down a US F-35. The pilot ejected but I think he's gonna be in trouble. We landed safely in Winnypig after dancing all over the sky. Flying to Chi wasn't much of a problem except for that guy in the airport who asked me to deliver a package of muktuk to his sister at the O'Hare aerodrome. Customs didn't like the way it was leaking oily stuff and getting their nice floor dirty, so they took it away and ate it themselves. But we got back okay. Now I'm going to go to bed because I'm a tired little teddy bear.

I can't imagine being on a 29km long wave for over fours hours*. Gotta be in good shape for that. The river is "unsilting" faster than anyone had expected after the causeway gates were open. It would be gnarly to see hundreds of surfers riding much larger wave on a bore near a mile wide at one point but that depends on a lot of things, including the deforestation of the water supply grounds.

* I think that's what I heard one of the Californians say in a TV interview.

The Bore is a spit now but it has a new claim to fame. YT video link after the article.

Kevin Bissett, THE CANADIAN PRESS Published Wednesday, July 24, 2013 6:57PM ADT

MONCTON, N.B. -- Colin Whitbread says his 29-kilometre surf on a single tidal bore Wednesday in the Petitcodiac River in southeastern New Brunswick was unlike anything he has ever experienced in his years riding waves.

"There's nothing like it in the world, so it's an experience totally unique," said Whitbread, who was caked in mud and covered in scrapes.

"I'll never forget this."

The tidal bores in the Petitcodiac River have increased in height in recent years since gates under a causeway that crosses over the river were opened in 2010.

Whitbread and J.J. Wessels say they rode the wave for two hours over the muddy river, where they were joined by other surfers as they approached Moncton's riverfront to large crowds who cheered them on.

Whitbread said while it was exciting, it was also dangerous and should only be attempted by experienced surfers with emergency crews for support.

The tidal bore results from the high tides in the Bay of Fundy, pushing water into the river and creating a wave about a metre in height.

It's that kind of danger that kept Tim Adham from Nova Scotia on the shore watching the event with his daughter. The pair drove to Moncton with their surf boards intending to ride the bore but chose to take a pass.

"I might come back and give it a try when it gets more popular and there is some kind of contingency set up for if somebody gets hurt or somebody gets stuck," Adham said. "But for now it's just a bunch of extreme guys trying it out."

Adham said he got a lot of strange looks from people at Lawrencetown Beach, a popular surfing spot in the Halifax area, when he said he was going to Moncton to surf.

The tidal bores in the Petitcodiac River have increased in height in recent years since gates under a causeway that crosses over the river were opened in 2010.

There is a plan to replace a 300-metre section of the causeway with a bridge, which would allow the tidal bore wave and aspiring surfers to travel another 15 kilometres up the river.

Ben Champoux, Moncton's director of tourism, said he hopes tidal bores become a tourist draw for the city.

"It is a game-changer for Moncton and our river," he said.

James Upham of Moncton was one of the many people staking out a good viewing spot to see the tidal bore.

"That was one of the coolest things I've ever seen," he said. "I grew up in Moncton and remember when the bore was a lot smaller than it is today, and to see people actually surfing on it is exciting."

The flow is from the right side of the pic. Note the green area. That was all river when I was a boy and it was a thrill to watch The Bore come up the river. The Brown trickle you see is the river now. It is known locally as The Chocolate River because that is what's left after The Mighty Petitcodiac was destroyed by greedy asshole politicians.

Salmon, trout, shad, seals, porpoise...

Over a hundred schooners anchored off the docks in the days of sail...

Huge warehouses, rail, roads... The Hub of the Maritimes...

Bastard politicians tore a chunk of history out of the hearts of thousands.

I had a thought today whilst watching the news. New Brunswick and Nova Scotia and the Feds are in talks with Big Oil to start offshore drilling in an area that, if an earthquake is produced, a tsunami could get my ass wet. I live just north of "The Bend" and I am sitting at about 35m above sea level. As it is, we have a tidal bore, albeit much diminished after a causeway was built which silted up a very wide and navigable river. It's made possible by the way the Bay Of Fundy narrows. There is a creek in a small valley right on the bend that runs not far from my house.

I was just watching the news. Man it's rough in the Carolinas. Heard from a buddy... 1/2" of ice on everything and police are ORDERING people to stay off the roads. Add onto that the old power system and they may have some very dark areas and cold people.

And those poor Brits! Wading waste deep in what I assume is cold water.

Only the best will do; he must be riddled and griddled by the inimitable Jon Stewart, in which event Rapp will make history by endeavouring to read the entire MOAB thread aloud on camera. The ensuing ruction will make splashes in ALL the dailies.

I posted yesterday but it seems to have slipped on the ice right off the page. I didn't see the last Leno, but it will probably be online to be viewed for years to come. I have the last Carson on a VCR tape somewhere. Bette Midler was his guest for the entire program.

Now I sit in a hotel in Winnipeg, my clothing moldering in the suitcase, to fly to Chicago tomorrow. Will they let me back into the US? Who knows? I have a passport; I got it from a guy in Flin Flon or maybe The Bas. One of those.

See, that's what I mean...YOU are not aging and the frame feels wrong. The reason it feels wrong is because you're closer to pure Truth in your innate nature, and all them dang cells are marching to the drum of a Big Lie, the Time mechanism we all hum to. I embedded this whole metaphysical bepuzzlement in a couple of chapters of Beyond the Cascader but I never got my hands on a real tower to bring down in order to put a stop to all that foolishness. Who knows? Maybe the button is just around the corner, so to speak...

"...the cells keep paying attention to time as though it were a real thing."

I would love to agree with that sentiment, A, but 'tis difficult. I once read: Find a picture of yourself aged 20 and one of you at age 40. Now go to the mirror- can you still tell me you don't believe in death??

And it all happens with the passage of TIME.

The funny thing is that I can feel me- the real self- rattling around inside my body, as though I were in a frame that doesn't fit all that well.

Congrats on your well-deserved survival,Eb!! It always puzzles me how the cells keep paying attention to time as though it were a real thing, I know better but I have to learn the Secret Code to figger out how to clue them all in on the deal. Maybe I should swallow a Secret Dakota ring...